


Zero Feet Away

by Camelittle



Series: Sochi Winter Olympics 2014 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Grindr, Healing through sport, Infertility, Infidelity, M/M, Redemption, Sochi Winter Olympics 2014, ice hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur’s life is on a self-destructive downward spiral. Only an endless stream of pointless hook-ups and one night stands can distract him from his failures. But then a random hook-up leads to an opportunity to build a new life, and in the process rediscover something he thought he’d lost forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zero Feet Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitty_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitty_fic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sleeping Through a Thunderstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108997) by [blazeofglory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory). 



> So many people to thank! Particular thanks to the wonderful waanderlust for the plot beta and ideas, to kitty_fic for running this fabulous fest. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank blazeofglory for writing the fic that started me down this path by giving me so many feeeeeelings, and who has graciously allowed me to write a sort-of-sequel. Blazeofglory, I borrowed your Arthur and Merlin, and muddled up their relationship and break-up, but ultimately I wanted to fix the bloody awful mess that Arthur made all those years ago. Thank you for being so tolerant.

The first time they hook up, it goes precisely according to plan.

His thumb hovers over a profile on the screen.

Toned torso, lithe, slender. Skin not quite pale enough, a little too muscly, but good, very good. His thumb slides down the screen, scrolls through the details, but his mind’s already made up. This one, tonight. Gavin. Probably a pseudonym. That's OK, he's using a pseudonym, too.

“Hi, Gavin, I like your profile picture.” He pauses for a second then clicks send.

A few seconds later his phone beeps. “Thanks, Andrew. I like yours too. What you up to tonight?”

“Just wondering the same about you actually.” Click send.

Beep. “Busy later, but I’ve got an hour now.”

“I don’t think we’ll need that long.” Send.

Beep. “Confident. I like it. Sweet.”

Grindr tells him that Gavin’s only 15 feet away. Looking up, he scans the room and locks eyes with a guy with dark hair and a hungry grin.

It’s as simple as that.

He’s so grateful that he can do this, that he can scratch the itch that makes him feel restless, makes his skin feel tight, and know that he’s in control, there will be no consequences. Smiling faintly, he closes the distance to where Gavin stands.

He’s always careful. Ultra careful. It’s only a small sacrifice, substituting the taste of strawberry-flavoured latex for the bitter-salt tang of flesh, and it keeps him—and, in theory, his wife, although they haven’t touched or kissed, let alone had sex, for more months than he can count—safe.

Gavin is more relaxed than him, less cagy, and he senses that they could become friends. But he doesn’t want to drink, or to chat, that’s not what he’s come for. The bar has been carefully chosen. There’s a discreet alcove, where they tuck themselves away from prying eyes. Kneeling at Gavin’s feet, mouth watering as he unzips the prize before him, he lets himself be taken, mind blissfully blank as Gavin fucks into his mouth.

He likes it like this, prefers it to the complete anonymity of the glory hole. He likes to see their faces when they come, to know that he’s having an impact, that it’s him they want, that he can make another person feel something, because he can’t remember the last time he felt anything but numbness, a deep, black gulf where his emotions used to be.

And he’s really good at cocksucking, he knows. He has spent months perfecting his skills, slipping dicks, large and small, between his flushed lips, licking, slurping and sucking, then gently taking them deep and sweet. He’s good at looking up trustingly at just the right moment, at massaging balls through trousers, at sliding lips and tongue teasingly over rampant pricks until his own cock jerks and strains to be freed. Not bad, for a happily married man, he tells himself.

Well. Married, anyway.

He can’t hear much above the music of the juke-box, can’t hear whether Gavin’s breathing changes or whether he moans, but nevertheless he can sense from Gavin’s urgency and faltering rhythm that he’s close to his climax. He grabs Gavin’s pert arse and pulls him in, sucks him right down, humming, until Gavin stills and pulses into him with a cry, the teat of the condom filling with heat.

Still kneeling, he fumbles blindly at his own crotch. Gavin bats him away, lifts him onto his lap so that Arthur’s straddling him, so that their foreheads touch and their hot breath collides, and he gently but insistently slides his hand beneath the waistband of Arthur’s jeans.

“Here,” he says, in a soft voice. “Allow me. Andrew. Please. It’ll be my pleasure.”

“I think it’ll be all mine,” says Arthur, hoarsely. “Please.”

Gavin’s still got the condom on, he’s not tucked himself back in; he’s soft and hot, spit-slick and shiny. Moaning, Arthur dips his head into Gavin’s shoulder, mouth dropping open, slack-jawed, watching his thick prick fucking into Gavin’s fingers.

“You’re a big fella aren’t you now,” says Gavin conversationally as he tugs expertly at Arthur’s jutting cock. His gently twisting hands are skilful and warm, and he applies just the right amount of pressure. “Bet that fat cock'd feel good up my arse. Come for me now, big fella.”

And Arthur does, with a long groan, spurting in time to the music, head lost in whitespace. In that all too fleeting moment, he’s finally at peace, and the clamouring voices of all the people he’s failed fall silent.

After he’s returned to himself, Gavin looks pointedly down at his wedding ring and grins. “Better get cleaned up now, big fella,” he says, rummaging in his pocket for a hanky, and wiping himself down. “You don’t want Wifey to get wind of what you’ve been up to, now, do you?”

Arthur huffs out a laugh, and slumps onto the hard wooden chair at his side. “I suppose not.” He rearranges himself, tidies up his trousers, dabs at his shirt, rubs balm on to his sore lips. It seems curiously companionable sitting with this guy, cleaning up and exchanging inconsequential chit chat.

“Listen,” says Gavin after a few minutes. “I’ve got other things to do tonight, but I enjoyed this. We could do it again if you like? I’m Gwaine in real life.”

“Arthur.” Surprising himself, he finds himself exchanging numbers. He doesn’t normally exchange real names with his hook-ups, let alone phone numbers, but Gwaine seems somehow different. He’s at ease with him, he isn’t sure why.

They shake hands, which seemed curiously formal, given what they’ve just been doing, and then Arthur set off back towards home.

It’s gone precisely according to plan, and yet, now it’s over, he feels hollow and unsettled.

He lets himself in quietly, and sneaks up the stairs to his marital bedroom. His wife’s already asleep, her breathing even and quiet, her back to him, long curls draped across the pillow, gleaming in the moonlight. He pads over to her and slips under the covers.

She’s zero feet away, but a chasm separates them.

He misses skin. Misses warm velvet under his fingertips, the glow of being touched by someone who cares how he feels.

But when he sleeps, he does not dream of her skin, dark honey and silk, nor of Gwaine’s, firm and tanned. Instead, his dreams are filled with cool, pale limbs, dusted with a sprinkling of wiry, dark hairs, skin that reveals its desire for him with goose-bumps and blushes.

The eyes in his dreams are not hers, deep, dark and guileless, but instead pools of passionate ocean blue that inflame him with their wordless adoration. He dreams of sensual hands, long-fingered and strong, hands that encircle him, probe him and coax him to an ecstasy of longing. In his sleep, the silence of his marital bed is replaced by inarticulate sighs and grunts, by slurping, gorging, smacking, slapping, fucking sounds, masculine and satisfying, the music of joyful laughter and sweet, hedonistic lust.

However often he has this dream, it doesn’t seem to get any easier to wake up and realise that he once had this, he could have kept this, but he casually threw it away, discarded it with cruel mockery and heedlessness.

A dent in the pillow and a pile of unwanted, unread self-help books on his bedside table are all that remain of his wife this morning.

It would be so easy to surrender to the blankness, the emptiness, to jump into the void that he confronts each morning, but a Pendragon never gives in.

He sets his jaw to face the loveless day.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

 

For the sake of his dead father’s memory he puts all his energy into his work. At least at work he is not completely without purpose. His employees, his staff, they depend on him, they need him, need the company to succeed.

It’s quite possible that end-of-year accounts—or maybe the systems that have been devised to create them—are an instrument of the devil. He can think of no other reason why his CFO, Mithian, can possibly be in tears.

Something of a protege, Mithian took over his job when he became CEO, and she’s the most competent person he’s ever had the pleasure to work with. He’s incredibly proud of her. Which is why, when she comes to him, distraught, just as he’s closing his briefcase and contemplating the empty evening that stretches out ahead, he’s concerned.

“The expenses system went down just before six,” she says, sniffing, her bottom lip wobbling. Wordlessly he hands her a packet of kleenex, and she blows her nose. “Which means we have to re-enter all the data. All of it, Arthur! And all the staff have already gone home except me! But it’s Freya’s school performance tonight. I promised, Arthur!”

He sighs, eyeing the large sheaf of expense statements on her desk. Looking back up at her, noting the bags under her eyes and the redness of her nose, he reaches an executive decision.

“Leave it with me,” he says. “Ask Elena to call my wife and let her know I’m working late. And then go home.” It’s not like he hasn’t told her that every day this week already.

“But—”

“No buts. You’ve been working til midnight every night this week, your children have probably forgotten what you look like.”

“Arthur I—”

“Go!” He waves at her, sits at her desk and pulls the top sheet of paper out. “Most of these expenses are mine anyway. Look, I had your job before Father’s precipitous exit from this world made the CEO chair vacant. I remember what year-end accounts are like. Let me do this.”

“But I can’t! You’re the CEO!”

“You can, and you will. Now bugger off before I change my mind.”

She backs away, and he smiles at her. “That’s the ticket, Mithian.”

“Thank you Arthur,” she says, blowing her nose again. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Just remember that next time I forget your birthday.” Shaking his head and smiling, he logs on to her workstation and starts to type.

He actually prefers this, his old job. Prefers the neat columns of numbers, the precision, accuracy, the knowledge that it’s possible to get it 100% right.

Being a CEO forces him to pretend that he believes in what the company does, and that he cares. He hates it, hates pretending. Hates it with a passion.

The truth is that he doesn’t care about advertising, he doesn’t believe in his clients’ measly products.

Mithian’s far more a believer than he is. Mithian sparkles and glows when she talks about the company’s progress. Joy enters the room with her in the mornings and departs in her wake. Passion and ambition burn through her gaze.

The way she talks about her job, her spark, her energy, her infectious smile, her breathless enthusiasm when she presents reports, they remind him of someone.

Someone impossibly, irrevocably lost.

Sighing, he pulls another expense sheet from the pile.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

 

The next time he hooks up with Gwaine, it doesn’t quite go according to plan.

For a start off, there’s a Champions League match on the TV which holds his attention while he waits around for Gwaine to turn up. Which he does just as Arsenal concede a penalty, so Arthur can be forgiven for being distracted. His hands are in his hair and his face is set in a grimace when he feels a warm presence at his side.

“Here you go, Princess,” says Gwaine, putting a pint of cold lager in front of him. “If you’re a fellow Gooner you’re going to need one of these.”

So Gwaine’s a Gooner, too. There’s a shared frisson of excitement when Podolski equalises, and together they break into a rousing rendition of “There’s Only One Arsene Wenger” when Gervinho puts another one away shortly afterwards. Arthur feels a sense of bonhomie that he’s not experienced for longer than he can remember, and at half time he brings Gwaine another beer.

“Do you play any sport, Arthur?” Gwaine takes a long swig, so that froth clings to his upper lip.

“I used to,” says Arthur. “Played football. Professional for a while. But then I had to stop, my father wanted me to—well, there were other things I had to do. So now I work out, to keep fit, and I run, but I miss the team sports, you know? And then I got married, you know how it goes? I mean, I get to do what other people want me to do, these days, not what I want.”

Gwaine shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “You’re a strange one, Princess. I’ve never done anything I didn’t want to do.”

Arthur can’t remember how that feels. It’s been years since he thought he was in charge of his own destiny. He takes a sip of his beer to hide the fact that he’s starting to get morose, and turns back to Gwaine to distract himself.

“So how about you, then, Mr In-Control,” he says. “You’re pretty buff. Do you work out?”

“Nah. Well, not just for the sake of it, anyway. I play hockey. Pretty good at it too.” Gwaine winks and slurps his beer. “Hoping to get into the Olympic squad and all.”

“Olympics? Forgive me for being dense, but didn’t that just finish?” says Arthur, frowning.

“Not that Olympics, you prat. The Winter Olympics. Ice hockey’s my game.”

Arthur can’t help laughing, a little bitterly. What is it with him and ice-skaters?

“What’s so funny, Princess?” says Gwaine.

Arthur shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just—well, I had a relationship with a figure skater, once. Years ago, mind.” He finishes his pint, and gets up, waggling his empty glass. “Another?”

“The Gwainester never says no to beer!” says Gwaine, grinning back at him.

They exchange Arsenal gossip for a while. When Gwaine puts a warm hand on his thigh, and looks at him intently, Arthur looks away.

“Hey,” says Gwaine. “We don’t have to shag, you know, if you don’t want to. I’m happy just to be mates, I have other options.”

Arthur sighs, doodling patterns with his finger on the condensation that clings to his pint glass, and is silent for a while. “Yeah,” he says, eventually, looking up. “Do you know what, I think I’d like to just be mates.” Because he’s beginning to find parts of him thawing out that he didn’t realise had frozen, over the years of his marriage, over the years since… and what he’s feeling right now is the beginning of something he’d forgotten he didn’t have.

Simple, uncomplicated friendship.

Gwaine punches him on the upper arm. “Sure, Princess,” he says. “You can never have too many mates, right?”

Arthur smiles at him gratefully, and doesn’t let on that at the moment he doesn’t really think that he’s got any. He’s found that life as the CEO of a even a small corporation like Pendragon Ltd is just too busy to maintain friendships.

They settle down to watch the second half, and what with one thing and another end up having a couple more jars afterwards and staying til closing time. The evening hasn’t gone according to plan, but somehow he feels warmer and more content than he has for a long time.

He stumbles home, fumbling with the key in the lock, and creeps up to his bed.

She’s left him another self-help book. It has a yellow post-it note on top, saying “look at page 63”. He should probably be grateful about her clumsy, arms-length attempts to identify ways of fixing their broken marriage. At least she’s making an effort, which is more than he can say about himself. But mostly he just feels frustrated and annoyed, the buzz of the evening dissipating.

Watching his wife’s still, silent form under the covers for a moment, he puts out a hand to check she’s still breathing, and she flinches away from his touch.

Clearly she’s awake, but her body language tells him she doesn’t want to talk, so he slips under the covers and shuts his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

Something has to change. They have to change, but right now he doesn’t know how to make it happen.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

He never fucks them, and they never fuck him. He sucks and is sucked. He fingers and is fingered. He wanks, and is wanked. That’s all. Those are the boundaries he has set himself.

It was different with Merlin, of course. But he has closed that door forever.

They say that practice makes perfect. If that’s the case, he must be the best cocksucker in all London.

A part of him—a bitter, inner voice—laughs and says he’s saving himself for Mr Right.

According to Grindr, there’s a twink 25 feet away with the unlikely name of Mordred. Laughing at the name for a moment, Arthur scans his profile. He looks good, although obviously not perfect; eyes blue, but a little too pale; face a little too round; curly dark hair not precisely the right shade of jet. But he’s close, close enough to what Arthur’s looking for, and, more importantly, available.

He retrieves his standard, saved Grindr spiel and is about to press send when he remembers.

Shit. It’s his wedding anniversary today.

He pockets his phone and turns away.

Picking up some carnations at the garage, he walks the remaining two streets to his house. He frowns when he sees his sister’s car parked outside. He gets it that his wife and his sister are very close, but right now, having finally resolved to try to sort things out with his wife, this is a complication he could do without. So he walks slowly up the steps to his house, yawning as he fishes out his keys and presses open the door, toeing off his shoes, expecting to hear voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses.

He puts the bunch of flowers on the table. There’s a vase filled with red roses there, and he feels a vague pang of guilt that his offering is not such high quality, but stifles it. He is more busy than his wife, and it’s the thought that counts.

Puzzled at the silence, and supposing that they must have gone out for a glass of wine somewhere, he pads up the stairs to the bedroom, pushing open the door, and gapes.

This was not what he was expecting.

His wife. Having what looks and sounds like extremely satisfying sex. On his bed.

With his sister.

He catches a glimpse of his wife’s bare flank, shiny with sweat, her breasts covered only by the draping veil of his naked sister’s hair, the rest of her body hidden by Morgana’s pale, slender form, before squeezing his eyes shut.

But he can’t close his ears to his wife’s breathy, on-edge moans and gasps.

On one level his male ego is offended, sure that she has never sounded like that for him. On another level, he counts it as yet another way in which he has failed her—as he has failed everyone else. His wife, his father, Morgana, himself.

Merlin.

He has failed everyone who matters, in one way or another.

Most of all he’s perplexed by the stab of jealousy that slices through him, making his neck tense and his throat convulse. He's perplexed when he realises that it’s not Morgana he’s jealous of. It’s his wife. He’s jealous of his wife, because someone--his own sister!--is touching her with such love and tenderness, and that’s what makes his eyes prick and his chest tighten, because he’s not sure anyone has ever touched him like that, not since...

It’s the memory that nearly floors him. _Merlin, reverently lifting the white cotton from his chest, gasping as he feels Arthur’s heat, swirling his tongue round Arthur’s navel, his nipples, his glans, with delighted moans and choking sighs._ How could he have squandered something so precious, how could he?  

Closing the door, he pads silently down to the living room. He pours himself a large whiskey with trembling fingers, closes his stinging eyes, and considers his options.

He’s ready for the two women when, heedless and giggling, they tumble down the stairs. Jaw clenched, he sees the exact moment when they notice him, their bodies stilling. They stand in the doorway, half dressed, hands entwined, and their combined gazes dare him to react.

“Arthur,” says his wife. “You’re back—early. We were just—” she waves, vaguely with her hand towards the stairs.

“I saw what you were just doing.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Morgana, would you leave us please?” he replies, in measured, conversational tones. His voice sounds half-dead even to himself. “I need to talk to my wife.”

But Morgana is never one to submit to his requests. She stalks over to him.

“I’m not going to apologise for this, little brother. Gwen is too good for you. You have squandered her love and relinquished your claim on her.”

“Morgana, please, will you listen to me for a moment—”

“No, Arthur, you listen to me. I will leave here for now, but when I come back I expect you to be gone. You have been absent from Gwen’s life in all but name for months now—years. It’s time you admitted it to yourself and sorted yourself out. Because, funnily enough, I’m still your sister and I love you, and refuse to admit that you’re a totally worthless human being, despite all the evidence.”

He can’t help shouting. She has always known how to rile him.

“You say you love me? And yet, here I find you fucking my wife! Don’t make me laugh, Morgana!”

“Arthur, do you even realise that you never call Gwen by her name any more? You always refer to her as your wife. When did she cease to be a person, to you, Arthur? A real flesh and blood person, with real needs, not an—an obligation, a duty—”

“Get out, Morgana!”

She carries on heedlessly, remorseless.

“Oh yes, a duty, and one that you singularly fail at. When was the last time you took Gwen out, showed her you appreciate her? You treat her as some kind of domestic drudge, you hardly ever speak to her, let alone bring her gifts—”

Wounded, Arthur’s gapes at her. “That’s not true! I bought her flowers today!” He points to the bunch of carnations where they lie wilting on the table.

If Morgana was cold before, she was furious now. “Fucking carnations from the 24-hour garage? On your wedding anniversary? Even you know better than that, Arthur, you pathetic arse. You constantly set yourself up for failure and then you beat yourself up about it, because self-flagellation seems to have become your thing, since Uther died. Well I’ve got news for you Arthur, the world does not revolve around you—”

“Get out!” He yells at her, his blood filled with white-hot rage, partly at the betrayal, but mostly at the unpalatable truths that his sister’s words flay him with.

“It’s all right, Morgana. Arthur and I need to talk.” His wife’s cool, quiet voice cuts through the heated atmosphere. “I’ll call you later.”

Giving him a look that tells him that she’ll skin him alive if he so much as lays a finger on his wife, as if he would! Morgana turns her back and leaves them alone with their demons.

It’s so quiet he can hear the fridge hum and then judder to an abrupt halt in the kitchen.

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” his wife says, eventually, breaking the silence. “At least, I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his whiskey, the burn stinging his throat.

“But you can’t tell me that you haven’t noticed that we’re not speaking. We haven’t spoken for weeks, Arthur. Weeks! You’re still not speaking to me now!” Her voice is beginning to rise. “You’re only here when I’m asleep. You talk about me to Morgana, but you don’t talk to me. Talk to me damn it! It’s my life we’re wasting, you know.”

Biting her lip, she looks haunted, and he feels a sharp stab of guilt at the way he’s neglected her. He looks at her through tormented eyes, and sees the strain in her face, the new lines that are appearing, that he put there, and he flinches away from her pain.

He moistens his lips with his tongue. “I don’t know what to say to you any more, Guinevere.”

“You have been physically absent for a long time, Arthur, but emotionally unavailable for even longer. Ever since—well, I know we haven’t really talked about it, and that’s part of the problem, but ever since you found out about your infertility. And then when Uther died, its—it’s like you’re another person. I know you’ve been grieving, and I tried to give you space, but—”

“It’s all right, Guinevere,” he says. “I should have—I bottle things up. I know it’s destructive, but I can’t—I,” and his throat constricts, his mouth dries up, he physically cannot continue speaking. He waves his free hand at the room helplessly and takes another gulp of his whiskey.

Guinevere steps over to him and sits in the chair opposite, settling her feet up underneath her body. She looks like a cat; comfortable and calm, but wary and alert, poised as if to strike.

And strike, she does.

“I tried to give you time, but Uther died two years ago, Arthur. Two years! And the last few months, you have been—silent! I don’t know where you go, when you pretend to be working late. But don’t think I don’t know what you do.”

He looks up, shocked. “Guinevere, I—”

She lets out a bitter-sounding laugh.

“Oh yes. Did you think I didn’t work it out?” she says. She stands up again, and starts to pace round the room. “Do you really have such a low opinion of me? Do you really think I’m that stupid? Do you think I don’t—don’t you realise I can smell them on you? The stench of latex, and spunk, Arthur. It doesn’t wash away. Not entirely.”

She turns to look at him, and he sees her lip tremble, hears her breath hitch, and her voice shaking.

“I don’t know who they are, and neither do you. Do you?”

He looks at her dumbly.

“Do you?” she shrieks.

He shakes his head, face aflame.

“And then you come home and—you touch me, Arthur. After you’ve touched them. Are you surprised when I don’t want that?”

Blinking at her, mouth agape, he shakes his head again. She stalks over him, her mouth in a line, and slaps him hard around the cheek, so that it stings. He almost welcomes it, because it’s the strongest sensation he’s felt for months, years even.

“Answer me, damn you!” she says. Her face is wet with tears, her voice high and strident. “Don’t just sit there looking at me like it’s all my fault!”

Numb, and saddened by the bitterness in her tone, he tries to speak.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse, alien to his ears. “It’s never been your fault, Guinevere. I—”

“Fuck you, Arthur.” Her tone is low and venomous. “I want a divorce. I am going to have a shower, and when I get back I want you gone from my home.”

That’s when he finally manages to get his treacherous voice back.

“No,” he says. “No. Wait, please. That’s not what I want.” He sounds hoarse, even to himself. “Guinevere. We loved each other once. It’s me who is sorry. I have driven you to this, I know. Surely we can—I can stop! I can give it up! Guinevere, please— ”

But she’s the one shaking her head, sadly now.

“No, Arthur,” she says. “It’s too late for that now. We can say sorry to each other when it’s all over. But right now I can’t even bring myself to look at the man you have become, let alone touch you. I don’t’ think I ever want to touch another man again. I have smelt so many of them on you—”

Shuddering, she turns away from him then, and leaves the room.

He can’t really blame her.

He has never been entirely honest with her, right from the start. He never told her the real reason why he’s so disengaged, so detached. His infertility is part of it, of course; he’d loved the idea that Gwen could provide him with children, the idea that he was following the path his father would approve of. But he’s never really been in love with her, not for herself.

Not giddily, spine-tinglingly, breathlessly in love, overwhelmed with laughter and painful longing.

Not like he was with Merlin.

The reason why he has not admitted it to her, or even Morgana, is that until now, until this moment when everything is falling to pieces around his ears, he hasn’t even admitted it to himself.

He’s never got over losing Merlin, and that’s the truth of it. The fact that it was his fault, that he thought at the time that it didn’t matter, only makes it worse. And now with his father dead, and his infertility, any reasons that he might have once given himself for treating Merlin so cruelly, if there could be such things as reasons for being such a heartless bastard, are void. Oh the delicious irony.

He’s never even told Guinevere Merlin’s name.

She deserves better than that. Guinevere, with her tender heart and gentle hands, her incisive intelligence and intuitive grasp of people, deserves to be cherished. Maybe Morgana can give her that. He hopes so, because he has failed.

He gets up and packs his bag.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

Arthur’s always been goal-driven; throughout his life he has set himself targets, and striven for them. He’s never known any other way of being, and has always assumed that setting goals is the only way to success.

So where did it all go wrong? Maybe he has just been choosing the wrong goals, allowing other people to choose them for him? Or maybe he forgot about the fact that the journey to the goals is probably more important than the goals themselves.

Or maybe he just forgot that other people are people, not props to be used along the way. Now he’s paying the price for that, and so are they.

He sacrificed his happiness, his football career, Merlin’s diamond-bright friendship and love, all of it, for goals—his job, his marriage, his non-existent children—that he’d set himself only to meet the expectations of society, and his dead father. It is a bitter pill to swallow when he realises finally that these goals were unattainable, and that by striving for them he has damaged the people he cared about.

Think what he could have had instead, what a life he could have had, if he’d made other choices, if he’d acknowledged other priorities.

After all, life is just a journey to the ultimate goal, death. If you don’t appreciate the journey, then what’s the point of it all?

He once looked at one of Gwen’s self-help books. It was called “Goal-Free Living”. He had scoffed at it at the time, but one phrase stood out for him. “When opportunity knocks, sometimes it knocks softly.” What opportunities for a happy, fulfilled life had he ignored because they were inconsistent with one of his stupid, inappropriate, unreachable goals?

Too many to count.

Sitting in an anonymous Travelodge, his life in a suitcase, he flicks through the channels wondering if this is it, if now he is at rock bottom he can allow himself to have a “the only way is up!” moment.

And that’s when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He slides it out, and smiles ruefully at the screen.

Gwaine.

“Hey, mate. You dated a figure skater. Can you skate?”

*** _Does he skate? He remembers skating._

_Queensway rink. Seven - no, eight years ago._

_“Teach me how to spin!” Arthur said._

_Whirling, skidding, breathless, falling, giddy, being pounced on. Sandwiched between hot, firm body and hard, cold ice. Pink cheeks. Laughter, so much laughter. Prick jammed insistently up against his thigh._

_Merlin._

_“You learned that fast!” Sparkling blue eyes. Chafed lips rubbed his. Maddening, tantalising lips. Firm, moist lips. Full, rich, clever lips, plump and shapely. Warm, sweet breath mingling with his._

_“I learn everything fast.”_

_“Everything?”_

_“Everything.”_

_“Let’s try something new, then, shall we?”_

_“I can’t wait.”_

_Tongue probing, licking in fast and then withdrawing, making him gasp. Warm weight lifting from him. Giving chase, stumbling, sliding, yelling and laughing. Laughter, so much carefree laughter. So much carefree, wonderful laughter. He hasn’t laughed like that in years._ ***

“Yeah, I skate a little.” Send.

Beep. “Great. My team needs a goaltender. It’s an emergency. You used to be decent at footie. Fancy coming along for a try-out?”

And maybe this is it. Maybe this is Arthur’s chance to start again – on a path of his own choosing this time.

Maybe this is a case of opportunity knocking softly.

Without a thought he sends another message.

“Yeah. Why not?” Send.

After all, what’s he got to lose? His wife’s chucked him out, his overbearing father’s dead, his sister hates him, and he gave up his football career for a company that has become a burden.

And before all that, the thing that started his life down this stinking, rotten, desolate path in the first place, he hurt his Merlin. He drove effervescent, incandescent, whirlwind Merlin out of his life, and with it all that was sparkling and dizzy and reckless.

Maybe now it’s time to start again, and do it right this time.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

That night he dreams of Merlin’s long fingers gliding across his chest, pinching and flicking his nipples, making pangs of urgency thrill through his torso until he’s hard and keening with need. Merlin’s clever tongue laves them and teases them, and he draws them into his mouth, those mischievous fingers taunting Arthur’s straining prick, making Arthur arch and writhe, clench and relax in his grip.

He dreams of Merlin’s quiet voice whispering and groaning, deep and lust-filled, his breath tickling Arthur’s ear maddeningly.

Still dreaming, Arthur thrusts him face down onto the bed, slapping his pert round buttocks, and licking trails all around his back, paying particular attention to the perfect indentations around  Merlin’s taut, muscled hips, making Merlin sigh and judder under his grasp.

He dreams of pressing and pressing into Merlin’s furrow, so tight and so hot, Merlin’s flesh trembling, his hoarse cries piercing Arthur like needles, trails of Arthur’s pink fingerprints and bruising lip-prints on his pale shoulders, like a child’s painting, or a map of love.

He wakes up hard and sweating, and there’s no-one to hear him mutter Merlin’s name into his pillow when he comes.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

Mithian’s shocked face is almost comical, and he laughs in joy at the sheer recklessness of it.

“I don’t believe it,” she says, peering again at the sheet of paper he’s handed her. “You would really? They want me to do it?” She’s only whispering now, and he nods.

“I suggested you to the board because I can think of no-one better. They swiftly agreed, they’ve all seen you in action. Congratulations!”

“God, Arthur, I don’t know what to say!”

“Then don’t say anything. Just because I’m Uther’s son doesn’t mean I’m any good at running this company. I was competent, that’s all. Every good damn idea that I put in place in the last 2 years came from one person.” He steps round his desk and pats her on the back. “You.”

Smiling at him warmly, she shrugs and sniffs, bottom lip looking a bit trembly.

He hands her a packet of kleenex.

“I’m truly delighted to be handing over to you, Mithian. I am sure you’re the right person for the job. My life needs to change direction now, I think you’ll do a far better job than I have, running this company, and I have every confidence that my father would have said the same thing. I’m just grateful that I’m leaving it in such a safe pair of hands.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is a bit firmer now.

Schooling his face into a pursed-lip frown, he looks her in the eye.

“You’re going to have to remember one thing, though,” he says in a very stern voice. “One very critical thing that you’ve been getting wrong time and time again.”

“What?” she whispers, frown lines appearing between her eyes.

He relents and bursts into a full-throated laugh. “You’re going to have to buy your own kleenex from now on! Or at least get Elena to do it for you!”

She laughs and punches him on the arm. “You’re still a bastard, Arthur Pendragon.”

“I know. But you love me anyway.” His lips tug upwards in a rueful grin.

She nods, eyes bright. “God help me, I do.”

“And now I’m going to take you out for a very expensive farewell dinner.”

“As long as you’re paying, Arthur. You can’t expect the company to foot the bill any more.”

“It will be my pleasure, Mithian.”

 

ooO8O8Ooo

When he wakes up panting, sweating, desperate with want, he is grateful, in a way, because those dreams are not the worst. The worst dreams, the very worst ones, are when he hears his own mocking laughter, and watches as the expression changes in Merlin’s eyes, shining adoration in one heartbeat, bewilderment and hurt in the next. He still feels the shame of his own reaction, the uncertainty that makes him laugh nervously, the curious sense of disjointedness when he understands the depth of their misunderstanding. And worst of all, the words. They plague him, and he hates them, because they are all his.

“We can never be together. Surely you realised that. This is all just messing around.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He still dreams of the way that Merlin’s expression closes, the bright gaze dulling and lowering, the defeated slump of Merlin’s shoulders as he pulls on his clothes, the way he turns his back and dashes at his eyes with the backs of his hands as he whispers,  “No. No, I didn’t realise that.”

Part of the thing that made him laugh was amazement at his own sheer stupidity, because: How could he not have seen it? Merlin always wore his heart his on sleeve. But in his dreams he hears how his laughter must have sounded to Merlin, like a mocking rejection of him.

The quiet click of the door as Merlin leaves, never to return.

At first there’s just confusion, bewilderment, but then it creeps up on him. A dawning sense of emptiness and loss.

His own voice, quiet and timid, alone, whispering to his pillow, still warm and musky-scented, perfumed by Merlin’s love and laughter, as he whispers, too late, “Merlin? I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. I’m so sorry.”

He wakes up, hollow and aching.

That’s when it all started, the emptiness of Arthur. It’s the space in his heart where Merlin used to be. It has grown with time until there’s nothing left but a yearning pit.

“I hope you found it, Merlin,” he says to his pillow. “I hope you found the happiness you deserve.”

 

ooO8O8Ooo

His thumb hovers, and he wonders if Morgana will pick up her phone. It’s the first time he can remember that they haven’t spent any time together on her birthday, but she hasn’t responded to any of his texts or phone calls, and she’s unfriended him on facebook.

He knows she is resilient, and formidable, and downright terrifying, and he misses her more than he cares to admit.

When it goes to voicemail, he sighs, and leaves a careful message.

“Happy Birthday Mog. I hope you have a wonderful day. I miss you”

It will have to do, for now. He understands: he’s on probation.

He smiles, though, when a few minutes later, his screen flashes with a message from her.

“Thanks for the flowers.”

Only four words, but it’s a first step.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

_**Six months later** _

ooO8O8Ooo

Sitting where he is, on the reserves bench, right next to the rink, Arthur has an uninterrupted view of Percy’s impending doom.

As far as Arthur’s aware, attackers aren’t normally that enormous. Agile, yes; big enough not to be intimidated by the defence, yes. But in this instance the French winger is like a man-mountain. He makes Percy look like a kid. Arthur can’t believe that something that massive can move that quickly. As the attacker bears down on Percy, puck twinkling at the end of his stick, Arthur’s heart’s in his mouth.

It’s like watching the inexorable approach of calving glacier towards a miniature rowing boat.

Percy stands his ground in goal, stick flicking out skilfully, sliding the puck out to Leon, who takes it up to to safety, but the giant’s momentum is not checked. He crashes into Percy with a sickening crunch, crushing him against the boards. Close enough to hear the wind whistling out of Percy’s lungs, Arthur winces at the impact, hoping that Percy’s okay.

Fuck.

But this is his chance to get on the ice and compete for his country. Heart pounding with anticipation, Arthur’s warming up as the referee blows his whistle and Gaius, the team physio, steps onto the ice to inspect the damage. The French monster leers at Arthur, flashing bared teeth at him so that Arthur can see a gold crown.

And then Percy’s coming off, on his feet, thankfully, albeit wincing with pain, and giving Arthur the thumbs up, and grinning, which hopefully means that he’ll be patched up in time for the next match. It’s the penalty box for the French winger, and finally Arthur’s coming on the rink, taking his place, adrenaline heightening every sensation.

He swears it’s like hearing music, watching the elegant plays of his team-mates as they swoop and glide around the rink.

He doesn’t have much to do for a few minutes, while the French team are shorthanded and team GB are on a power play. The GB team’s possession is seamless. Gwaine’s everywhere - darting between the enormous French defenders, snake-hipped and fearless. Leon and Owain normally form an impenetrable defensive barrier, grim-faced and persistant; but during the power-play Owain’s gone up front, assisting the attackers. Confounding the French defence on the right wing is Gareth, powerful, with a devastating turn of speed, clever feints and skilful stick work.

When Gwaine slams a scorching shot into the net, Arthur’s beginning to believe they might even pull it off, although on paper the French are the better team.

But when the French penalty ends, the enormous French winger has the puck again and he’s hurtling down the rink, shimmying artfully past Leon, unphased by Owain’s optimistic body check. He slams into the boards, but not before angling a scorching shot towards the goal. But Arthur’s anticipated it; his foot darts out and jabs the puck back into play, and he grins exuberantly at Leon’s triumphant shout.

His first touch for team GB is a save.

But there’s no time to celebrate. He’s not playing against the Sheffield Steelers now; this is a high-ranked team, and they must focus to get through the rest of the play. Frowning, he settles back into the goal and maintains his vigilant stance, hoping that Percy will be all right for tomorrow’s clincher with Kazakhstan, but hoping that he’ll get another chance to play as well. Because this is brilliant.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

He can’t believe they’ve done it.

Despite eventually being beaten by the French, the GB Ice Hockey team has beaten Kazakhstan and Japan, and although not in the top 12 teams of the championships, they have qualified, on a wild card, by virtue of being a host nation.

So there will be a GB ice hockey team at the Winter Olympics for the first time since 1948. And what’s more, after a whirlwind of preparation and club hockey, Arthur will be in it.

Leon skates over to him at high speed and enfolds him in a crushing bear hug, whirling him round on the ice.

“Best goal-tender ever!” he crows “After Percy, of course. No offence, Perce.”

Owain, Gareth and Gwaine join the knot of euphoric bodies. Sticks in the air, they whoop and holler. No-one had expected this! This surprise 5-2 win over Kazakhstan has clinched their place.

Of course they’ll get annihilated in Sochi by the likes of the North Americans and Russians, with their professional hockey players and entourages, but that’s all in the future. Tonight, here in Latvia, at the World Championships, it’s all about them, they’re going to party, and they’re going to party hard. GB sport is on the up and up, and they’re part of it.

They’re going to sample the delights that Riga has to offer, and then they’re going to go home and train like loons, because this is what life’s all about. Arthur’s happier than he could have thought possible six months ago.

And later on, when he wraps his lips round the heavy, hard prick of a massive Danish defender named Lars, when its blunt tip hits the back of his throat so hard that he sees stars, he gratefully forgets his previously disastrous life decisions in a haze of lust and endorphins. Things are getting better at last. He can just see Gwaine’s left knee – his cock’s thrusting into some Swedish centre’s eager mouth – the whole club reeks of adrenaline and latex, semen and testosterone, and he feels like he belongs.

But as they leave the club, Gwaine’s texting his new boyfriend back in the UK, and Arthur suddenly feels a tendril of concern through the fog. Gwaine’s been seeing this guy for a couple of months now – should he still be acting this way? If Arthur had a boyfriend he wouldn’t be picking up Swedes in random Riga bars.

“Your new boyfriend - he ok with all this?” he says, aiming a vague, uncoordinated hand-gesture at the club they’ve just left.

Gwaine looks up from his phone. “Yeah. We’re just fuck-buddies.”

That sounds all too familiar to Arthur. “Yeah. But does he know that?”

“What’s it to you, Princess?” says Gwaine, in a “none of your fucking business” tone of voice, and Arthur can’t blame him for being annoyed. Given the way that Arthur acted while he was a married man, it’s not really any of his business how Gwaine conducts his relationships.

But he can’t help himself. Because he’d hate to see Gwaine--who’s become a pretty damn good friend over the past few months--crash and burn as spectacularly as Arthur had with Merlin years ago.

Shrugging, Arthur struggles through a haze of beer, shots and post-match, post-orgasmic high to put this into words.

“It’s just, you know, I fucked up years ago with someone because I hadn’t realised they wanted different things from me, and I’d hate you to make the same mistake, mate, all right?” He pats Gwaine on the back. “It’s no biggie, just chill. Just looking out for ya.”

Gwaine’s lopsided grin shows him it’s all right. “No worries,” says Gwaine. He laughs. “Actually, I’m not the one who insisted on just being fuck-buddies. The guy I’m with--well, let’s just say that someone did a number on him years ago. To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded if--” his breath condenses in the cold air like smoke when he sighs. “But, no worries, eh?”

Arthur nods. They weave along the roadside, keeping an eye open for muggers.

“How did you meet him, then?” says Arthur. “Grindr?”

“Nah.” Gwaine’s head is down, hands in pockets to keep them warm. “At the gym. He’s not into that scene.”

Arthur frowns. “But he’s okay with you--?”

“Yeah. Tells me not to get too attached. Says it’s just a bit of fun, we’re just messing around, I shouldn’t start thinking it means anything.”

It’s like the ghost of words Arthur once said coming back to haunt him. When Arthur shivers it’s not from the cold.

“And I’m fine with that, really,” Gwaine goes on. “I think he’s still hooked up on some ex. He doesn’t talk about it much. Hey, is this our hotel?” .  

 

ooO8O8Ooo

_The first time he met Merlin, they didn't get on at all._

_It was the cafe at the university library. Arthur, as captain of the university football team, was in training, and therefore starving. Some skinny bloody literature student was in front of him in the queue, and he was taking bloody hours interrogating the serving staff about the ethical sourcing of fair-trade bananas._

_“Excuse me, Lefty,” said Arthur, “ but would you mind resuming your bleeding-heart-liberal inquisition after I have been served? Some of us have actual work to do.”_

_Skinnyribs turned round, mouth open in mock horror. “No I don’t. Handsome.” Arthur didn’t blush and his heart did not speed up when stormy blue eyes raked his body._

_He frowned. “You don’t what?”_

_“Excuse you. I don’t excuse you. I wouldn’t have minded letting you go in front, might have enjoyed ogling that fine arse, but then you went and opened your stupid mouth and spoilt it all. So no, I don’t. If you hadn’t been so bloody rude about it, maybe. But no. Bloody posh, public-school pillock.”_

_Arthur was furious. This loony-lefty, undernourished, bat-eared idiot with the pink, gay-pride t-shirt, and bloody gorgeous flushed-red lips that looked like they wanted to be bitten, had no right to be challenging him, Arthur Pendragon, on home turf._

_But his libido was faster than his tattered thought processes. By the time his brain caught up with his sudden inexplicable erection, Skinnyribs had turned away and started to chat to the server again._

_Arthur caught his arm._

_“What? You insufferable wanker!” said Skinnyribs._

_“Did you just come on to me?” said Arthur._

_“What, me? No!” said Skinnyribs. His knowing smirk and glance at Arthur’s painfully obvious groinal discomfort said otherwise._

_“Sorry, mate, but I’m straight!” said Arthur._

_“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.” The knowing smirk widened and became a full-blown grin, a twinkly-eyed, concentrated beam of delight that almost made Arthur stagger under its weight. And that was it, he was doomed forever after that._

_It was that smile that sealed his fate._

_And when Skinnyribs, who was clearly a clumsy buffoon, dropped his money all over the floor, and some wanker from the university rugby team started on him, laughing and kicking coins all over the cafe floor so that Skinnyribs had to dart around gathering it all up, Arthur couldn't help the powerful surge of anger that clenched at his stomach._

_He stamped heavily on the rugger-bugger’s foot, so that he cursed in surprise and pain, and shoved Arthur so hard that he stumbled._

_“Don’t be such a fucking arsehole,” Arthur growled._

_The rugger-bugger’s eyes narrowed and he said “Oooh. Protecting your *boyfriend* are you?”_

_And Arthur knew it was meant to be an insult, but suddenly he didn't care._

_“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, what if I am? What of it? Jealous?”_

_He got a black eye for his trouble, but the adoring smile on Skinnyribs’ face was totally worth it._

_Not to mention what Skinnyribs did with those sinful-looking lips later on, in the comfort of Arthur's room.  
_

 

ooO8O8Ooo

He supposes it will do. The decor is modern, the floors are clean, and the serving staff are young and enthusiastic. The coffee’s pretty decent.

A few months have passed, but nevertheless he’s not sure whether they’ll turn up. He sips his Americano, leafing through a dog-eared copy of “Metro”. His mind’s not on it; he’s unsure how things will go, rehearsing things he wants to say.

“I’m gay, Guinevere.” No. Too abrupt.

“I should never have married you.” Too direct, and hurtful.

“I’m sorry.” That’s good. But it doesn’t cover everything.

“I want you to be happy.” Trite. Urgh. Grimacing, he dunks his biscuit in his coffee and sucks at it. Too preoccupied to notice them come in, he looks up in surprise when they slide into the seats opposite.

“Hello, little brother,” says Morgana coolly, looking him up and down. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks,” he says. He’s been training a lot recently, and has lost an inch or two around his waist, bulked up his shoulders a bit. “So are you.”

Morgana’s turned out immaculately, as always, but he notices new laughter lines around her eyes, the frown lines between them are less prominent. She looks happy, he thinks.

Surprised, he smiles at her, feeling a surge of genuine warmth. When he says: “It’s nice to see you,” he really means it. His gaze then takes in Guinevere. “Both of you.”

Guinevere hasn’t spoken yet, and she has a guarded air about her. He sighs and gropes in his head for the things he wants to say.

“Guinevere. You look beautiful as always.” It’s true. He leans forward and touches her hand. Sadly, he notices that she has taken off her wedding ring. Her fingers, warm and slender, grasp his for a moment and let go, and she nods.

Sighing, he straightens in his chair. “Look, there’s no point in beating about the bush. There are a lot of things I need to apologise for, and no, I don’t want to wriggle out of that, but first I wanted to say that I can’t deny it hurt me, seeing the two of you together.”

The two women join hands, and Guinevere drops her gaze.

“I am sorry you had to find out like that, Arthur,” she says.

He nods and looks sideways at Morgana, who’s sipping her tea.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You were going to find out sooner or later,” she says, replacing it in the saucer and dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “So what’s this all about?”

He sighs. “I don’t want to lose touch, that’s all. You’re my sister, Morgana. I can’t remember ever spending Christmas without you. And Guinevere, you’re my ex-wife. Whatever I may have done, and I know it was unforgiveable, I still care about you. I—I miss you both.”

Face looking uncertain, Guinevere swallows, and toys with a teaspoon. “When did you start?” she says, abruptly. “When was the first one?”

It’s like a slap to the face. His mouth drops open.

“Erm. I think it was—” his throat feels tight. Knowing where this is headed, he wills himself to speak. They have a right to know.

Instead of answering he fishes around in his backpack, and passes them an envelope. “First, I want you to have a copy of my test results,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I am clean. You need to know that.”

“Answer my question, Arthur,” says Guinevere, but she takes the envelope.

Taking a shaky breath, he continues. “It was after Uther died,” he says. “About a week.”

He’s tried to prepare himself for this, but when her eyes fill with tears and her breath falters, it’s like a punch to the gut. She nods and looks at Morgana, as if searching for an answer there, and Morgana puts her arm around her, steely eyes drilling into Arthur as if she could draw blood with her glare.

He deserves it.

“Guinevere, I am so, so sorry,” he chokes. Suddenly his coffee doesn’t look so appetising. “Look, I’m gay.” No, he wasn’t meant to say it like that. “What I mean to say is—I should never have married you.” Shit, that was wrong, too. He winces at his own insensitivity. “I know you can never forgive me. Fuck it. Forget I said anything. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

He surges to his feet, but before he steps out of the coffee shop, a slim hand stops him.

“Sit down, Arthur,” says Morgana. “We’re not done with you yet.” Her voice is almost warm. Blinking, he’s surprised to see that her eyes have softened a little. A delicate flame of hope kindles, and he gives her a lopsided grin.  

He nods, and sits, heart thumping, breathing like he’s been in a tough training session, and Guinevere’s blowing her nose awkwardly.

“Arthur,” she says, eventually, her voice tremulous, “thank you for being honest at last. I didn’t know what was wrong, I thought it was me. Can you imagine how that felt?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, honestly.

“But it isn’t, is it? It’s not me?”

“No,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve been living a lie.” He tugs his lip up on one side in a rueful smile.. “Although, I have to say that I’m not the only one round here who’s had a big, gay epiphany am I?”

Guinevere flinches, and looks away at that, throat working, eyes swimming with tears. He reaches out to stroke her hand, to reassure her.

“Guinevere. Guinevere! Look. It’s all right. I know I have hurt all the people that matter, because I was living a lie. And you didn’t deserve that. I’m not going to live a lie, any more. That’s what I wanted to do, today. To tell you the truth, and see where it leads us. Because the truth is that I—I still love you both, and I want you to be happy. If you can be happy together, then that makes me happy too.”

Nodding, to underpin the veracity of this statement, he presses his lips together, and then realises that they’re both staring at him.

“What?” His eyes dart from one to the other, in confusion.

“I do believe you’re growing up at last, little brother,” says Morgana, smiling.

And after that, it’s not so bad.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

In the lead up to Sochi, uncluttered ice-rink space is at a premium in the UK’s crowded capital—which is how the GB hockey squad ends up sharing a two-week training camp in France with the GB figure skating squad.

“This is going to be totally bad-ass,” chuckles Gwaine. “All those fit, lycra-clad arses to ogle. I can’t wait.”

“You’ll be too bloody busy training to sit drooling by the ice,” says Arthur, tolerantly. “Besides which, didn’t you say your boyfriend will be there?”

Gwaine shrugs. “There’s no harm in window shopping is there? Anyway, like I said, he’s cool with it.”

“You’re such a tart, Greene.”

“You’re a fine one to talk!” says Gwaine, mouth open in mock outrage. “What’s got into you, anyway? Spare the sanctimoniousness, Pendragon, I’ve got eyes, I have seen what you get up to with that busy mouth of yours!”

“I’m single!” retorts Arthur.

Truth be told, although he hasn’t mentioned it to anybody on the team, Arthur’s a bit concerned about the possibility of an awkward encounter with his ex, the figure skater, whose meteoric progress he’s been following, and who now seems to be a very real gold medal hope.

But even he hasn’t been prepared for the jaw-dropping truth.

They’re just skating off the ice after a hard session, sore and needing a shower and a massage, when one of the male Team GB figure skaters starts warming up on the ice, and that’s it, that’s him, he’d recognise those elegant, lycra-clad limbs anywhere.

Merlin.

Twenty-five feet away and closing.

Arthur’s glad he’s still clad in his goal-tender’s kit, which hides the humiliated heat that springs to his face. His fingers clench tight around his hockey stick to disguise his involuntary urge to grip that pert, flexing rump.

And when Merlin, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, twirls and glides, laughing, across to Gwaine, presses a hand to Gwaine’s chest, and pulls him in for a scorching kiss before swooping away again, Arthur gapes. He feels like someone’s smacked him with a bucket of ice-cold fish. He thinks he might throw up. Inexplicably, and to his utter mortification, he is developing an erection.

Merlin. Merlin is Gwaine’s boyfriend. Merlin is here. Merlin is Gwaine’s boyfriend. Merlin and Gwaine. “I’m a forever kind of guy” Merlin is with “if it moves, I’ll fuck it” Gwaine.

Ducking his head and turning away, Arthur wills himself away from the ice, keeps his helmet on until he gets to the changing room, and sits, trembling, with his head in his hands. He’s fucked. Irredeemably, irrevocably fucked. If, even after all these years, his body has this visceral physical reaction to Merlin’s mere presence, how the hell is he going to survive two weeks of training, let alone Sochi?

Later, he’s sitting with the rest of the guys in the canteen and trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach, when finally the pigeons come home to roost. Hearing someone come up behind him, recognising Gwaine’s voice, he swallows his mouthful of steak and dread, stands and turns. And there is Merlin, two feet away, head swivelling towards him, mouth parting in shock. Arthur wonders which way this is going to go. Cold and indifferent? Or bitter and resentful?

Oblivious, Gwaine starts to introduces them. “Ah, here’s the man. Hey, I wanted to introduce you to someone. Merlin, this is—“

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Merlin. It’s been a while.”

“Not fucking long enough for me.” Ah. Well, that answers that question. Merlin never had been good at biting back his emotions.

Lowering the hand he’d unconsciously raised to shake Merlin’s, Arthur has to fight to control a sudden unbidden urge to reach out and hold him close, never to let him go again. Merlin’s cheekbones are flushed, eyes deep in their sockets, lips pressed together. He looks furious, suspicious and sexy as hell.

“Look I know we didn’t exactly part on good terms, Merlin, but I’m truly sorry about that—“

“Too damn right we didn’t,” says Merlin, tugging at Gwaine’s elbow. “C’mon Gwaine, let’s get out of here.”

Gwaine’s looking between the two of them in confusion. “Wait. What’s going on?”

“Your fucking team-mate is a twat, that’s all.” If anything, Merlin’s scowl deepens as he spits out the word “twat” with venom.

“You two know each other? Wait, Arthur, is this the figure skater you were talking about? Bloody hell, that’s fucked up.”

Gwaine’s face is almost gleeful, and Arthur wants to punch him. All this time, Gwaine’s been fucking his Merlin, and whatever he can get on the side besides, and all he can do is grin. You can go off people, he thinks, clenching his jaw.

Merlin’s turning away, and Arthur feels that some sort of a reaction seems to be required of him, so he shrugs and tries to ignore the panic that gnaws away at his stomach.

“Nice seeing you, again, Merlin,” he calls out to Merlin’s retreating back, slender and straight like the dancer that he is.

“Fuck off, Pendragon, you wanker,” comes the faint reply.

Arthur feels his lips tremble as he attempts to lift them in a nonchalant grin, raising his eyebrows and shrugging at his team mates, who are looking on with great curiosity.

Stomach clenching, he watches Merlin leave, false smile fading, heart beating faster.

Feeling eyes on him, he looks up to find Gwaine watching him. Gwaine nods once, face suddenly serious, and then turns to follow his boyfriend out of the room; Arthur tries not to think about where they might be going, and what they might be doing there.

When he stabs and saws at his steak, he suddenly finds that he’s lost his appetite.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

It’s always mealtimes that are the worst. He sits with Leon and Perceval again that evening, mainlining salad and chicken. He’s got a mouthful of croutons when Leon nudges him.

“Look out, Arthur,” he says. “Here comes trouble.”

Gwaine’s tray plonks down next to Arthur’s, nudging it along a bit so that a bit of his water spills onto it.

“Hey, careful!” protests Arthur.

“So, Princess,” says Gwaine without preamble, “ You and Merlin. History. Spill the beans.”

Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It was a long time ago—but yeah. We were—friends. Boyfriends—lovers, I guess. It didn’t end that well—”

“It’s okay, mate,” says Gwaine, and actually Arthur’s grateful to Gwaine for interrupting him before he can start getting maudlin. “Water under the bridge and all that. Just didn’t want things to be awkward with my team mate.”

Arthur nods, pressing his lips together. “It’s all right. And thanks.” Suddenly realising that Percy and Leon are watching them curiously, he shrugs at them.

“Thought you were married, mate,” says Leon. “Well, divorced anyway.”

“And you didn’t you realise I swing both ways?” Arthur smiles. “Worried?”

“Nah!” he says, grinning back. “Ogle my arse as much as you like, mate. It’s lush as fuck. Way nicer than Percy’s.”

“Oi! My arse is bloody brilliant. Gwaine tells me all the time.” says Percy.  

Gwaine nods. “Of the two of you, Percy definitely has the better arse,” he says. “I’m the expert. I decree it to be so. Arthur, as your mentor in the ways of the gay, I definitely recommend ogling Percy’s arse over Leon’s any time.”

Arthur can’t help laughing. “I’m not going to be ogling any of your arses, you arrogant wankers,” he says.

Leon adopts a mock-hurt expression, then, taking a massive forkful of his pasta, returns to contemplating of the latest issue of “Faceoff” on his ipad. “So, Perce, still thinking about moving to Canada?”

Percy nods. “Yeah, not sure where to go though.” Percy’s an amazing goaltender, hoping for a professional career in the NHL. Arthur will never be as good as him, he’s pretty chuffed to be on the same team to be honest.

“What about Toronto Maple Leafs?”  says Leon.

“Nah, they’re a bunch of poofs,” says Percy. “No offense, mate,” he adds hastily, reddening and darting a sideways glance at Arthur and Gwaine, who both laugh.

“Sounds like an endorsement,” says Gwaine.

“Yeah, bet they all have amazing arses. Where do I sign?” says Arthur. Percy aims a friendly punch at his upper arm.  

If Arthur had known that coming out to the team would be so simple, he would have done it months ago. He toys with his salad, feeling an unfamiliar sense of acceptance that he never felt during his time as a professional football player.

ooO8O8Ooo

The soft knocking of an opportunity can take many guises, and there are times when it takes courage to open the door.

In the past, Arthur would have kept any metaphorical doors firmly closed. Not for lack of courage: it is just that the potential risks to his goals always seemed to outweigh the benefits. But he’s not that man any more. And anyway, he’s aware that in this case the benefits outweight the costs—to him, at any rate.

They’re having a rest period after weight training and he arranges to meet up with Gwaine for a coffee.

“Here’s your double-vanilla-macchiato with extra cream. I don’t know how you can drink that shit,” says Arthur, sipping his black Americano.

Gwaine chuckles. “Need to give the body beautiful the right nutrients!” He indicates his spare frame with his right hand. “Can’t go wasting away, now.”

Arthur sighs. He has to watch every single gram of carbohydrate. People like Gwaine are truly irritating. “It’s genetics, not virtue,” he points out, “that means you can scoff whatever you want without modifying your body fat content.”

“You’re just jealous,” says Gwaine. “Talking of which—is that what this is all about, Princess? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve disappeared from Grindr. Are you going all serious and respectable on me? Or are you lovestruck?”

Stunned, Arthur looks up and meets his eyes. Gwaine’s normally mischievous expression is serious for once.

“Oh yes, Princess. Just because Gwaine is a flirt, doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He can recognise a crush when he sees one.”

Arthur swallows another gulp of his hot coffee, and thinks carefully about what he’s going to say. “It’s not just a crush,” he confesses, finally, looking up again. “It never was, with him. It's much, much more than that. You should know that, Gwaine.”

“Does he?”

Not able to trust his voice, Arthur stares into his coffee and shakes his head, swallowing.

“Looks to me like you’re talking to the wrong person, Princess.” Gwaine’s hand grips his shoulder firmly, and Arthur feels a hot gust of breath graze his cheek when Gwaine sighs.

“Look,” Gwaine adds. “Merlin and I were never serious. He’s an amazing person, and I’m just a flighty old tart. If he’s the one that got away, you should go after him.”

“Gwaine—you’re—I—I don’t know what to say.”

“A thank you would do.” Gwaine nods, and then flashes him a radiant, lascivious leer. “Anyway, there’s no way I’m going to Sochi stuck in a relationship. Did you know that Grindr crashed within 24 hours of the first athletes arriving for the London Olympics? Fact!” Standing, he swigs the dregs of his frothy coffee, and wipes the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I want a piece of that historic, athletic, Grindr-crashing Olympic action. Can you imagine Putin’s face when he sees the headlines?”

He spreads his hands out as if holding a newspaper. “Gay Gang Bang On Ice! Athletes Crash Hook-up App in Russia.” He chuckles. “It’s going to be glorious!”

Arthur’s not fooled by Gwaine’s cheerful air, and realises that whatever he does next, he has already started something that has consequences for people he cares about.

He’s going to have to be very careful. The chance to make amends with Merlin may never come up again.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

His hand poised to knock, he takes first one deep breath, and then another. He can hear the TV quietly from inside.

Rapping his knuckles on the door—gently at first, and then more confidently—he jogs on the spot, impatient, while he waits for an answer.

“Merlin!” he calls through the door. “Merlin can I talk to you for a minute?”

“No. Go away,” comes a voice from the other side.

The volume of the TV increases.

He bashes the door, hard, and bellows through it.

“Merlin! Open the bloody door! I only want to talk, you idiot.”

“Fuck off.”

He sighs, deflated, and then tries one more tactic.

“Please?”

There’s a pregnant pause, which extends on for what seems like several minutes, and Arthur is just about to give up when there’s a quiet click and the door swings gently open. A dark figure on the other side motions him through.

Gulping, Arthur steps inside, nervously tugging at his collar. “Thank you.” He’s made an effort, this evening; blue button-down shirt, snug-fitting trousers, hair carefully arranged. He hands Merlin a bottle of wine, which Merlin looks at, blankly, and sets down on the neutral coffee table in the neutral hotel room.

Except the hotel room is not neutral. It smells of the shower gel that Merlin favours, a scent that Arthur associates with frantic fucking, laughter, and warm, pale, skin. The memory makes him clamp his teeth together so hard that his jaw aches.

Just out of the shower, flushed pink and damp-haired, Merlin looks rumpled and relaxed, and Arthur has to put his hand in his pocket not to reach out and touch.

Still silent, Merlin indicates that Arthur should sit down on the undersized sofa next to the coffee table, and then slides gracefully into the seat opposite.

“Well, this is nice,” says Merlin, crossing his legs and staring at Arthur accusingly. He doesn’t sounds like he means it.

“Ah. Yes. I understand. Well, I just wanted to apologise, Merlin.” Merlin’s not making it easy for him, which is how it should be.

Merlin frowns. “You want to apologise now? It’s been seven years, Arthur. Seven years!”

A shaky, slightly sheepish laugh escapes Arthur. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry about that too.” Noticing his knee jigging, he forces it to stop, forces himself to be calm. “I fucked up. I was a total shit.” Calm? Fuck calm. He rakes a hand through his hair and tries to settle his ragged breathing.

“I remember.” Merlin’s face is unreadable, his tone accusing. “I put my heart on the line and you laughed at me. I remember that you told me that I was a pathetic romantic, that nothing we had done mattered, and that as far as you were concerned it was all just messing around.”

Arthur flinches slightly at the brutal way that Merlin repeats his words.

“You said that this could never go any further, and it wasn’t in your life plan to be in a homosexual relationship,” continued Merlin, relentless.”You said—”

“Yes, yes. I regret many things about my life, Merlin,” Arthur says, swallowing, “but none more than what I said to you that night. Not a day goes by without me thinking about it and wishing I had behaved differently.” He voice actually catches a little, and his eyes feel like they’re burning with the effort not to let them blur.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m bitterly ashamed and I’m sorry. I regret it every day. I just wanted you to know.”

He hangs his head, not wanting to give away the strength of his feelings at first, but then realises that he has to. If this is going to work at all, he has to be honest. Merlin’s still silent, his eyes fixed on him when he looks back up. Swallowing, ignoring the way his voice cracks and his eyes sting, he wills himself to carry on.

“I remember every sincere word that you said, and every fucking weaselly thing I said in return. You told me you were a forever sort of guy, and I laughed, like a complete tool. I laughed, and told you that it didn’t mean anything to me,” Arthur says, his voice rising a little. “I lied.” He puts his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out.

Merlin’s eyes are dark, unreadable.

Now he’s started, it’s as if someone has breached a dam. All those feelings that Arthur’s tucked away for safekeeping, that he thought he’d locked away forever, come flooding out.

“I was young, and stupid, and thought I could replace you with someone that my father would approve of, someone that could give him the grandchildren he wanted.” Arthur’s breathing quickens and he almost shouts. “I was wrong.”

Biting his lip, he looks down again to blink back the tears that start in his eyes, because Pendragons don't cry, dammit.

“I could never replace you.” He dashes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I tried, and failed, and just ended up messing other people up, and myself. I was selfish, and stupid, and wilful, I—”

He huffs out a bitter laugh and his voice tails off, shaking, and he wraps his arms round himself, a protective wall.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s warm hand whispers out to touch his shaking shoulder. “It’s all right. Hey. You hurt me, more than I can say. But you hurt yourself too. I get that.”

“You do?” says Arthur, peeping at him through sodden, blurry eyes.

Merlin nods, and through his haze Arthur thinks his eyes shine suspiciously brightly. “Of course I do, you stupid, stubborn sod. I’m not a complete idiot.”

A warm shape slips onto the sofa next to him. Slim fingers rack through Arthur’s hair and he moans, feeling himself pulled in closer. Overwhelmed with longing he turns into Merlin’s embrace, and wraps himself in it, clings on to Merlin for dear life.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, face buried Merlin’s shoulder, inhaling his warm, musk-laden scent, he needs it like bloody oxygen, “fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Merlin. You meant the world to me, Merlin, all along, you meant the world to me and I didn’t have the balls to admit it, and I’ve missed you every single day since. I know it’s too little, and too late, but I’m sorry.”

And he can’t help it, because he’s trembling, and his heart has grown so huge it’s threatening to leap out of his rib cage.

And his Merlin is zero feet away.

So he closes his eyes and dares to let his parted lips inch closer to Merlin’s mouth, and touch against it, gently, so that he can inhale Merlin’s breath, and for just one second, one long, but fleeting second, he feels Merlin’s soft, moist lips on his, and they taste like salt-and-vinegar crisps, and diet coke, and coming home.

It can’t last. Merlin pulls away and shakes his head. “You’re right,” he says, and he looks wrecked, inching away, hair awry, face flushed, eyes blown wide with frustration, struggling to get out of Arthur’s grip. “It’s too little, and too late. I can’t go back, Arthur. Not to what we had. I can’t stop the way I feel about you, but I have to protect myself. I have a gold medal to win. Leave me alone, Arthur. You have to leave me now. I can’t do this as well—“

And Arthur knows he must. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he relaxes his grasp and lets Merlin go, knowing that for once—possibly the only time in his life—he’s doing the right thing by someone that he loves.

His Merlin needs to fly.

Plus, there’s Gwaine to consider. Gwaine, who’s pretty much singlehandedly got Arthur back from the brink, who comes across as an uncomplicated, opportunistic fucker, but underneath it all is kind, wily, wise as an old goat, and Arthur’s closest friend. So, yeah, he can’t do what his body and heart desire, he can’t just reach out and take more, it wouldn’t be fair on anybody.

But at least now he’s been honest. It’s a weight off his chest. He doesn't know how long that weight has been there, oppressing him, compressing his heart, a millstone that he has been dragging around with him every second of every day. Each time he's honest with someone he's been lying to, he loses a bit more of that weight, and now the last vestiges are going, he feels as light as a feather. It's liberating.

“Go and win that medal,” he says, smiling as he realises he means it. “I have faith in you. No-one will be cheering louder than me.” Nodding, he stands, goes to the door, and lets himself out.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

To be honest, it’s a miracle they’ve got as far as day three of the camp without any injuries. So when Arthur slips on the ice, and feels a twinge in his inner thigh, he sighs in resignation. It was going to happen, he says to himself. He puts some ice on it, and rests that afternoon, but the next morning at weight training it’s very uncomfortable and Coach Geoffrey sends him to Gaius for a massage.

Gaius is acting as physio for all the team GB skaters, incuding the figure skaters, and he’s busy with one of them now, which is how Arthur finds himself sitting, waiting, by the side of the training rink, watching Merlin practicing his routines under the watchful gaze of his trainer, Sefa.  

Mesmerised, he watches, stunned, as Merlin executes a forward outside 3 turn, and then leaps high into the air in what seems to him to be a perfect triple Salchow.

When he’d known Merlin as a student, he’d always teased him about how girly the sport was, but seeing them close up, he knows that these jumps take incredible poise, and strength. So he sits there in the shadows, for longer than he should, eyes glued to Merlin’s slender figure, and it’s all he can do not to applaud Merlin’s faultless, graceful execution, his sheer power and fearlessness.

He knows he can’t touch, but no-one’s telling him he can’t look, he can’t feel, he can’t want.

So he looks, and he feels, and his fingers itch with the wanting.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

It’s on about day six of the training camp that the team really starts to gel, and it starts to feel like magic, the way that they anticipate each other’s intent as they dash, dribble, shoot, intercept and check. It’s even better than football. He sometimes finds himself laughing from sheer delight when he anticipates and stops a tricky shot.

At the end of the training session, beaming, he tosses his helmet at their coach, and folds himself round his team mates. Grinning, breath clouding the dank air, flushed, exhilarated and shiny-faced from exertion, they thump each other’s backs and holler.

A sixth sense makes him look up; his breath catches when his eyes glimpse, in the plastic stadium seats, a flash of sparkling blue eyes, tufts of black hair poking out from underneath a woollen hat, sharp cheekbones.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

It’s pretty good food, here in France, but steak and salad gets monotonous after a while. He sighs, sliding his tray onto the three steel bars that protrude from the self-service cold-food buffet, and selects a banana..

“I hope that’s fair trade,” says a familiar voice behind him.

Turning, smiling at the shared memory, Arthur struggles to control his sudden urge to reach out and stroke the hand that’s holding the tray.

He nods at its contents, instead. “I see you’re eating that vile vegetarian gloop again.”

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it!” says Merlin.

They stare at each other for a moment, before Merlin breaks into a blinding grin that almost stops Arthur’s heart and he has to turn away to hide the tears that start in his eyes.

Merlin catches his arm, forcing him to turn back. “Arthur, I-- maybe I-- ”

Something in Arthur’s face must bring him up short, and he stops speaking, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth.

Unable to speak, Arthur presses his lips together in a rueful smile, and nods once, tearing his gaze away from Merlin’s mouth to turn back to the server.

ooO8O8Ooo

They’re settling in to their training routine, mornings on the ice, afternoons in the gym, evenings on R and R.

They’re just finishing their morning training when Merlin, clad in Team GB training kit, steps onto the ice. The kit clings to his thighs and the contours of his crotch so tightly that Arthur’s mouth drops open.

“I’ll just, er—“ says Percy, releasing Arthur and backing away.

Leon glances at him and slides off. “Yeah. Erm—me too,”

The rest of the squad also make not-so-subtle “we were just leaving” noises, and scuttle away. Frowning, Arthur watches them go and turns to Merlin.

“What was that all about?” he says, puzzled.

Merlin looks a little sheepish. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says. “Gwaine said they’d all give us some space. You know.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Let’s assume for a moment that I don’t.” It’s unutterably endearing, the way that Merlin’s looking so awkward. He feels his mouth tugging up at the edges.

He’s answered by a lopsided grin. “All right. I’m – well, I’ve been thinking.”

“Careful, now,” says Arthur. “You want to watch that.”

Merlin punches him, hard, on the arm.

“Ow!” says Arthur, although he secretly welcomes the contact. A warm, fuzzy feeling radiates from the point where Merlin touched him. He cuffs Merlin round the back of the head.

“Ow! Prat!” says Merlin with a grin.

“Idiot!”

God, Arthur’s missed this, the back and forth, the knowing looks, the flirtaceous banter, the casual touching. He laughs with sheer delight, fingers tingling with the desire to just pull Merlin in for a warm embrace. Biting his lip, which itches to kiss, to claim that tantalising, bruised-pink, mocking mouth, Arthur is struck dumb for a moment, his whole body tense and sore with longing.

“So,” he manages to say at last, before the way that Merlin’s eyes sparkle mirthfully derails his tenuous thread of thought.

“Arthur. You look—erm. Well.” For a moment, Merlin seems to be almost as lost as he is, until he looks away and swallows. “The hockey, I mean. It suits you. You seem well? And happy?”

“Er. Yeah. I suppose so,” says Arthur. “I fucked up a whole load of stuff in my life, Merlin, but this is one thing that I think I have finally got right. I’d like to think I can start getting other things right as well.” He hopes Merlin understands what he means.

Merlin nods. “Good. That’s good.” Looking down towards his skates for a second, he coughs, as if nervous, then starts to speak again.

“And. Well. You know. I was kind of hoping, I know I was a bit negative about it when we spoke before, but I’ve had a chance to mull things over and, well—I think maybe I might quite like to. I mean. If that’s all right with you?” The last words come out in a rush.

Smiling, Arthur can’t help the hope that thrills and surges through him, making his heart race. “Merlin, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, you numpty.”

Merlin’s regarding him from beneath a veil of sooty-lashed bashfulness, and Arthur’s not going to let him get away with it. He clasps Merlin’s arms and starts to spin round him, very slowly, on the ice. Merlin goes round him in turn. They slip into an easy, arms-length, circling ice-dance, facing each other, eyes twinkling and flashing in the glaring floodlights.

“You’re not making this easy for me, you know, Arthur, you over-privileged stuck-up prat.” Flushed, Merlin bites his lip, legs working, pulling Arthur in closer so that they spin up more quickly.

Arthur tracks the movement with his eyes, and dips in towards Merlin, twirling ever faster, ever closer. “I know, Merlin. But you’re a  bumbling incompetent.”

They’re laughing into each other’s mouths now, dancing around one another on the ice, eyes lit up in happy anticipation.

“Come back to me,” whispers Arthur. “Please. Be mine again.”

“I was always yours, Arthur, even when you didn’t know it,” Merlin whispers back. “Just—don’t be a dick, this time. All right?”

“It’s a deal. No dicking.” He places a hand on Merlin’s face, all smooth cheeks and rough stubbly chin.

“Glad we’ve sorted that out.” Finally Merlin cups his cheeks. Rough, chapped lips brush against his, and a hint of peppermint gusts into his mouth. Their dance slows and they stumble, tangling skates, laughing.

The muted applause and loud whoop (which sounds like Gwaine) that greets their kiss probably shouldn’t have been unexpected.

They laugh as they part, and it’s a carefree, exultant feeling, one that Arthur’s forgotten ever having.

“Tonight,” says Merlin. “Tonight.”

“Come and find me, after training” says Arthur. “When you’re ready. We can go and eat, we can do anything you like.”

Merlin’s mouth quirks up at one corner and his head tilts to one side. The appraising look he gives Arthur makes his pulse rate quicken.

“Anything?” he says. “Good. I’ll be prepared for… anything, then.” Smiling, he turns on his skates and glides away.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

After that afternoon’s training he limps back to his room and sinks gratefully into the bath, hoping to sooth away the pain from a nasty bruise on his thigh. He’s just settled in when there’s a quiet knock at the door. Groaning, he hauls himself up and pads painfully to the door with a towel around his waist, leaving little pools of water with every footfall..

He flings open the door. Both of them start speaking simultaneously.

“What? Merlin! Can’t you see I’m in the bath, you idiot?”

“Arthur, I’m erm… ready!” Merlin’s face flushes and he bites his lip, eyes dark and speculative as he takes in Arthur’s glistening, bath-wet chest.

Grinning, slyly, at the way the tables have been turned, Arthur opens the door wider and beckons Merlin in.

“Oh, well, in that case, if you’re ready, you’d better come in, and I’ll dry off!” he says in a teasing voice, ushering Merlin in and indicating the sofa. “Can’t have you all dressed up with nowhere to go, can we?”

“Glad to see you’re still an insufferable smartarse,” says Merlin, brushing past him but not sitting down. “It would be such a shame if you became a normal human being.”

Bare arm tingling where Merlin’s warm hand slides past, Arthur’s gratified to see Merlin’s eyes sliding up and down his near-naked torso.

Stretching his arms up, and twisting his hips and neck as if to iron out bunched-up muscles, he closes his eyes for a second, and then opens them again to check he’s got Merlin’s full attention. His eyes flick down to where Merlin’s trousers are bulging subtly outwards.

Oh yes. He really has.

“Arthur,” says Merlin in a strangled voice, fingertips light and tantalising on Arthur’s flexing bicep, stepping in closer so that he’s in Arthur’ personal space. Arthur has craved this simple touch, this contact, for so long that he gasps.

But it’s still not explicit permission, and Arthur really needs to have that, because he’s been such a stupid, insensitive git in the past.

“Merlin,” he says, throat tight with longing, anticipation and something else, something fearful, but he can’t stop now. “I was a better person, back then, than I am now. I was a better person when I was with you. I can’t pretend. If you take me on again, you’re taking on someone who has lied, hurt and cheated. I don’t want you to think you know me, you don’t know the person I am now. I am sorry.”

His mouth tastes salty, metallic, like blood mixed with tears, but Merlin’s reply is simply to draw him in, grasping his damp hands and pressing his warm, moist mouth against Arthur’s, slipping his inquisitive tongue through the gap between Arthur’s lips until Arthur closes his eyes and moans, the sound muffled by Merlin’s mouth.

“I don’t care,” says Merlin, kissing Arthur’s stubble, his mouth, rubbing his plush lips along the line of Arthur’s jaw, towards the soft flesh of his neck, back to his mouth. “God help me. Look at you.”

Abandoning himself to the sensation of dissolving into Merlin, Arthur lets his arms snake round Merlin’s back and pulls him in, pulls him and kneads him with eager fingers, seeking those spots he knows are there, the spots that delight and inflame Merlin and leave him panting and keening with want. Gently, slowly, he slips his hand between the buttons of Merlin’s shirt, seeks out the nubbin of his nipple, swirls around it with a dry finger, feels Merlin’s back arching, arms trembling.

He murmurs Merlin’s name, and his mouth tastes like music and magic.

“Please, Merlin,” he says, breaking the kiss for a moment, one hand buried in Merlin’s hair, “Please. I’m a bad person, Merlin. Please, please if you’re going to say no, do it now, because otherwise I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.” His hands have dropped down and one works on Merlin’s trouser button, seeking skin, while the other caresses those beautiful buttocks, much loved, much remembered, and even better now in reality than in his dreams.  

“Look at you, Arthur,” Merlin whispers. “As if I could ever say no to you, all naked, golden and fiery with lust for me. Look at you.” He’s walking Arthur across the room, now, backwards, towards the bed. “I’m no blushing maiden, Arthur, I know how these things are, and God, I want you, I have always wanted you, that never went away.”

Arthur’s succeeded, he’s finally undone that button, and as Merlin speaks, the back of his thighs butt up against the bed, and he falls onto it, the towel thats wrapped round his waist falling away from him, so that the cool air makes him shiver, and the heat from Merlin’s hands makes him whimper.

“I know I shouldn’t but I want you so badly, with your rucked up hair and your hockey bruises like invitations,” Merlin’s saying, smirking while he lands heavily on top of Arthur, thighs between Arthur’s unresisisting legs. When Merlin nuzzles into the crevice at the base of Arthur’s neck, sucking a moist bruise from him, it makes Arthur’s toes curl, makes him moan. “I want to suck you and press my fingers into you until you beg. Want to get you all slick and moist and relaxed for me, and then slide into you, filling you up until you know who loves you best. Fuck. I still love you, Arthur. I always have.”

Heart pounding, Arthur growls and turns them both over, pressing Merlin into the bed under him so that Merlin yelps and grabs at his hair.

“Too many clothes, Merlin,” he says, astride Merlin, tugging at his t-shirt, burying damp hands under the waistband of Merlin’s pants and wriggling them down. God, how his hands have craved this, the silky-smooth skin of Merlin’s chest, the rough pelt there, the hard, tense muscles of his abdomen. His hands grasp the firm contours of Merlin’s torso and a long, drawn out moan escapes him, because it’s been too fucking long.

When Merlin’s hands, his long, sensitive fingers, wrap round Arthur's broad shoulders, they knead and coax him just so, digging into aching muscles. It’s too dry and too hard, and it fills him with white heat and longing, making him sob with need. God, this makes him feel alive, and the last vestiges of that vast black pit of despair at his core fill with light and desire.

He bends forward, so that his mouth greedily claims Merlin’s lips, his tongue, his cheekbones, his stubbly chin, gasping in hoarse, inarticulate whimpers all the while.

Arthur’s prick bobs and begs, pink and prominent, a moist bead at its tip, demanding attention. Thighs straddling Merlin’s torso, he knee-walks along the bed, until his prick nuzzles at Merlin’s full lips, and his breathing falters when he’s suddenly engulfed in wet heat.  “God, Merlin. Your mouth!”

It always drives him to distraction, the way that Merlin hums when he’s sucking Arthur off. No-one else has ever made him feel like this, no-one. Groaning, he regretfully withdraws. Merlin shakes him off without much effort and flings him, face down onto the bed.

“This,” says Merlin, kneading Arthur’s buttocks. “This is mine.” Arthur feels hot puffs of breath on his arse cheek, strong fingers drawing his hips up, and then an insistent prick nudging at his taint, and he stifles a moan. “So clean and beautiful for me, Arthur. ”

Arthur nods, unable to speak.

The bed shifts a little, and he feels heat and heaviness pressing him down into the bed as a cool, lube-slick finger glides into him, and the sudden intrusion makes him cry out.

“So tight, Arthur. So tight, so hot. All right?” a voice whispers in his ear, making thrills shimmer down his spine.

“Yes,” he says. He moistens his lips. “It’s been so long, Merlin. I haven’t… not with anyone else, only ever with you.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, almost a sob.

“Arthur. God. You mean… are you still sure? Do you still want this?”

“I want it, I want it, I want more. I’ve never wanted anything else as much as this..” Ashamed at how hoarse, at how needy he sounds, he can’t help himself. “I want it all, Merlin.” Because that finger has been joined by another, and they’re seeking, stroking, firm and strong, and when they meet their target it stokes Arthur’s need until he thinks he’s going to explode with it. “Please! I need it. Merlin. Please?”

“What do you need?” Merlin’s breathless, now, breathing ragged.

“I need you to fuck me,” says Arthur brokenly, strung out. He pulls his knees up under him to offer a better angle, ignoring the resistance of Merlin’s weight. He’s always loved the way that Merlin breaks him down, makes him plead for what he wants. “Please, Merlin, I want to feel your fat prick inside me, I need it.”

“Listen to you, begging me for it Arthur. So needy! So demanding!” A steadying hand sets itself under his chest, pulling him up. “Lucky I came prepared.”

Merlin draws away for a second, and Arthur whimpers at the momentary loss of fullness, but feels excitement slicing into his belly when he hears that promise, hears that Merlin came prepared, and his hand curls round his aching prick while he waits, so much waiting, so much wanting, it makes him shake.

“Oh, Arthur,” that teasing voice continues, faltering only slightly with some emotion that Arthur feels but cannot name, and his hand gently pumps. “So hungry for me, my golden lover. So impatient! Not long now. Hold on for me.”

And then, at last, a nudge at his opening and a slow slide past his resistance, and it’s awkward, because it really has been years, years since he’s let anyone do this, because it’s true, in all this time, this part of him, this secret, yearning part of him has always been Merlin’s and Merlin’s alone.

His breath leaves him in great gusts, bursts of it fanning his arm hairs and the bedlinens, he’s sobbing, he wants this so much, it bruises him and soothes him and touches him in a deep place, a hidden place, a secret place where only Merlin has ever been allowed. He hears Merlin’s voice, high and gabbling. Merlin’s still talking, he never could shut up, and like the fat prick that’s pounding into him, the words enter him and bloom across his skin until he’s tingling, electric. A small part of him hears the sounds he makes in return, the grateful, desperate cries that escape him with each thrust.

“Oh God, Arthur, God I have missed you, you stupid, impossible, gorgeous--” Merlin’s saying, his hand curving round Arthur’s hip and pulling gently on his cock so that Arthur can feel his climax building, tensing and gathering in him like swirls of joy. “Never fucking let me go again, do you hear me? I don’t think I could survive it. God, you’re so hot, so tight. I’m never going anywhere again. Going to stay in here, stroking you inside forever. Would you like that?  

He senses from the change in Merlin’s breathing, the way his rhythm falters, the tell-tale crack in his voice, the way that he suddenly inhales between his teeth, that he’s going to come, that he’s on the edge, that he’s going to tip over, and he relishes that moment.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Arthur?” Harsh, ragged breathing. “Never want to stop touching you, Arthur. Your skin, it breaks my heart. Come for me Arthur. I’ll wait for you. Come on.”

He encircles Merlin’s fist with his own, where it surrounds his prick, tightens his grip, picks up speed, and shouts when he comes, great jets of it shooting forth, streaking the bed, Merlin shaking above him with a harsh cry.

Merlin withdraws slowly, and the two of them slide, juddering and heavy-limbed, onto the come-slick bedcovers, sticky, coated with sweat, and smiling. Arthur's head and arms tuck into the waiting spaces of Merlin's s underarm, his chest, and they slot back where they belong, as if they'd never left him, and Arthur feels like purring.

Merlin yawns like a cat, his wide mouth gaping to expose even teeth.

“Missed you,” he whispers, fingers tracing a delicate pattern in Arthur's chest hair. “You great big arrogant pillock”

“Missed you too, numpty, with your lips and your--your--you know.” He’s too exhausted to think of any more words. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Heart slowing, eyelids drooping, Arthur curls a possessive arm around Merlin’s waist and presses his nose to that spot on Merlin’s pale collarbone where he can smell the tangy scent of Merlin’s creamy skin, breathe in his warmth.

There will be tough times ahead. There will be anger, and recriminations. But for now his Merlin’s _zero feet away_ , and that’s all that matters.

 

ooO8O8Ooo

End

**Author's Note:**

> The London Grindr server genuinely did crash in July 2012, and the press got into a froth about the fact that this coincided with the arrival of the first Olympic athletes. However, Grindr does not attribute this phenomenon to an influx of superb, randy athletes (much to my genuine disappointment!).  
> http://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2012/07/sorry-kids-olympic-athletes-did-not-cause-grindr-to-crash/260227/  
> But, hey, let's let Gwaine dream, shall we? And wish him, and all the other athletes, regardless of gender or orientation, all the best in Sochi.  
> Sadly, the real GB Ice Hockey team did not qualify. Maybe next time.


End file.
